Learn to Love What is lost
by icebucket
Summary: AU. Takes place in the early 1900's. Isabel is undergoing shock therapy because of her visions. When it is time for her to fullfill her role in the prophecy, can she trust someone she cannot remember? Even if he is her own brother? M/N,I/A,E/R eventualy
1. Prelude: Pain

I don't know what came over me but this seemed like a really good idea so i decided to put it to the test, see how you guys like it. soo tell me what you think :)

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The pain was excruciating. The sheer rawness of it surprises you. You would be surprised, but the only thing you feel is the blinding pain coursing through your veins, like a thousand knives piercing you to the bone, again and again, embedding in every conceivable location. Your body writhes and twitches as you try to get away. But there is no escape. No refuge from the madness. You try to hide behind the walls of your mind, try to protect your sanity, but it finds you there and punishes your efforts.

Eventually, it becomes too much. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to think. So your brain shuts down and you know you are going to die. You revel in the knowledge; welcome it. And if it were up to you, you would hold your breath and wait for it. But you no longer control your own body. It acts on instincts; primal urges you never knew existed. Like a second brain, one that does not understand pain. You don't try to fight it; you know well enough from experience that it is the only way to survive. You lose yourself in the pain and let your body take over. The ache numbs, but only fractionally.

Your lungs burn so your body forces in air and your breathless gasps ring in your ears; the last sound you will ever hear. It does no good though; it is like swallowing poisonous dagggers. Every fibre of your being writhes in agony, begging for the torture to end; but you know it is useless; these restraints will never let up. They dig into your wrists and ankles, irritating the bruises there mercilessly.

But you don't cry out; no, you have not uttered a sound for as long as you can remember. There is no real reason why you fast from words. You don't understand how your mind works, but you do know that it makes you feel better and that is the only thing that matters in your world.

The pain escalates unbearably; your body shudders in defiance, trying to fight it off. You bite down on the disgusting plastic tubing they had forced between your teeth until you feel your jaw will snap. And just when you think it is all over; death will finally relieve you of your lifelong misery, it stops. The pain reduces to a memory; something to haunt your dreams. Your heart pounds against your chest, as if trying to break through, while your lungs strain to give your body the sustenance it has lost.

You are faintly dissapointed, but it does not last. The numbness seaps back through your body, relieving you of any emothion. You feel... nothing. You don't care anymore. You never did.

You hear a door open, the faint click-clack of footsteps approaching. Your mind registers this but you do not react. You keep your eyes on the floor. You remember once, long ago, you found the pristine whiteness of the cold concrete sickening. But now... nothing. You barely even see it.

You hear the small screech of metal scraping on metal, the soft click of a lock being turned. The cold metal restraints are lifted and you feel hands on your arms, coming to drag you back to your cell. You register this with calm acceptance; they could have dragged you to a pyre and burned you alive and they would have received the same response; cool indifference.

There is a soft swoosh as you are dragged along the deceptively clean floor, your legs trailing behind you. You notice with passive interest that the hands are different than last time; rougher and somewhat aged. It makes no difference to you; the hands changed too often to be counted.

You do not know who the hands belong to. It has been years since you have looked someone in the face. It is easier that way. If they are simply hands and legs or disembodied voices, then you cannot fear them. You remember fear clearly; though you have not felt it since you first came hear, before the numbness. It is worse than pain.

The hands lead you back to the black pit that is your cell and shuts the door with a resounding bang. It is too dark to see anything but you like it better that way. You can look around and pretend you are nothing. You _are_ nothing. They tell you that all the time.

You lay against the cold, hard rock of your floor for what seems like ages, when you feel a pressure in your lower abdomen. You recognise the need to relieve yourself. There is a miniature cesspit somewhere in the tiny room but you are too tired to search for it, your ankles too bruised to carry your weight. You relieve yourself right where you lie, like you always do after a session, the liquid trickling down your thigh, soaking through the thin fabric of your gown.

You lay there in the dark, curled up against youself, soiled and sticky. You used to fear the dark, the oppressive black. But not now. You welcome it now, your only friend.

It is so easy to forget, to blend in with the night. You don't think, you don't move. Your breaths come in quiet whispers and it is easy to pretend they come from the rats tat share your room. There is the small clatter of dripping water off in the distance but the sound is soothing, it lulls you to blissful sleep.

Your bruises start to throb lightly but you ignore it. There was a time when they would disappear; heal themselves almost instantly. But not anymore. They saw it happen once and they punished you severely. You would not dare to let it happen again; you still have the scars from the lashes even after so many years. It was wrong; unnatural. That's what they said. You believe them though you don't understand what it means. Pain is very convincing.

Your mind mists and your eyes droop closed. You let yourself wonder; out of your body, out of your soul, back in time to a happier place. Memories of a little boy swirl behind your lids, mixed with pictures of a man and a woman, holding hands, laughing joyfully, their eyes sparkling with mirth. The images arouse a feeling within you, something you have abandoned. Hope.

You let these dreams consume you, take you out of your imprisonment and you forget your misery. You fade into darkness and wish you never have to return.

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Review plzzzzzzzzzzz!! I'll be very happy.


	2. Theatre

Okay, I didn't get many responses for the last chapter and i know many of you are confused, but i promise everything will be explained. Here's the new chap. and i hope it's good enough, i had a lot of trouble with it.

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"Have I mentioned how lovely you look, Miss Thallimar?"

"Only for the fourth time, Mr. Beckett," Rochelle Thallimar smiled lightly at her escort as she climbed nimbly out of the carriage. Her elegant green dress matched her sparkling emerald eyes and accentuated her ample curves.

"Would you mind horribly if I said it again?" Matthew Beckett smiled back as she hooked her arm through his.

"Oh, brilliant, Matthew. Just shower her with praise and make the rest of us look bad." Matthew looked back, amused, at his glowering cousin. Dillon Sinclair jumped haughtily out of the carriage, turning back and offering a hand to his newest escapade. Long, tanned fingers rested lightly in his broad hand as Miss Chloe Campbelle exited the carriage, minding her dress on the small step.

"I make do with what I have, cousin. Not everyone is graced with your natural charm," Matthew retorted, sarcasm dripping heavily off every word. Rochelle stiffled a giggle from his side and he smiled widely at her. Dillon ignored the jibe, sending a sly, flirty smile to his company for the night. He was received with a shy blush and averted eyes.

"Another one already?" Matthew whispered to his cousin as they led the ladies through the crowded street to the theatre, "You went through three in this past fortnight alone. I thought you'd scared them off with your promiscuous antics."

Dillon chuckled quietly. "Not quite," he whispered back, "This one's foreign. She's French, been travelling abroad by sea for the last two years. She's staying here for about a month or two. Quite the beauty don't you think?"

That she was. Piercing blue eyes and a button nose set in an elegant heart shaped face. Plush lips, a small rounded chin, and a natural blush on her high cheeks gave her an overall innocence that many men crave. Her dark mahogany curls were pulled up in a delicate bun, the color enhancing her creamy complexion. Her midnight blue evening gown accentuated her tall, slim frame, hinting sensuously at her feminine curves. Though, she was, maybe, a little too thin.

"You think every breathing being under the female category to be 'quite the beauty'," Matthew chided. His tone was jesting but there was true anger brewing beneath the joke.

Matthew very well knew that Dillon was a lady's man and he absolutely abhorred his womanizing ways, and put forth no effort to conceal it. If it were not for their lifelong friendship and blood relative his presence would not be borne. Nevertheless, their friendship was still going strong only under a blood oath made by said wanton friend that virtue would never go into question. That was where Matthew drew the line. It was one thing to play with their hearts, but to destroy any chance at a future was unacceptable. Needless to say, it still irritated Matthew to no end when his cousin would show up at social gatherings with a different girl on his hand.

"You can't blame me for admiring the magnificence that is women," Dillon huffed indignantly.

Matthew chuckled lightly, his mood brightening. "No, I can't," He replied softly, staring adoringly at Rochelle's back before she disappeared into the crowd. She and Chloe had excused themselves to the ladies room, agreeing to meet at the entrance of the theatre in a few minutes. "I'm going to marry her someday," he murmured absently.

"Marry who?" Dillon, who had disappeared into thoughts of his own, asked stupidly.

"The fairy godmother!" Matthew replied, glaring at his inattentive cousin, "Rochelle, you idiot!"

"You're joking!" Dillon widened his green eyes disbelievingly at his brown eyed friend.

"I have no reason to," Matthew said firmly.

"You cannot be serious! You wish to be stuck with the same woman with the rest of your life? Bowing down to her every need so she doesn't make your life miserable? Honestly Matthew, come to your senses! What if there are children?! Do you really want those little buggers running around, breaking everything they touch, and scaring off the guests with their incessant squealing?"

"Not all children are like your sister, Dillon," Matthew resisted the urge to roll his eyes, "And with your description, you make children out to be pigs. Or have you forgotten you used to be one?"

"Times change," Dillon huffed indignantly.

"Times may change, but you're still the rambling idiot you used to be, always thinking with the wrong head," Matthew said calmly, smiling a wide, overly sweet smile at an outraged Dillon.

"And you're still the thick headed fool of a romantic you always made yourself out to be," Dillon shot back, "What hit you on the head and convinced you to get married? You are, if I may so bold as to remind you, only seventeen this past June."

"Are you blind to the world around you Dillon? Are you so caught up in these idiotic games you play that you see no one else but yourself?" Matthew said exasperated, "I have been courting Miss Thallimar for the last year and a half, in case you failed to notice, as I'm sure you have, and have never been happier. I finish school this coming fall; I will ask her to wait for me. I know she will. My inheritance is more than enough to provide for us and I will get a job downtown if need be. I would do anything for her."

"Listen to yourself!" Dillon cried, "You're a blumbering love sick idiot! Don't do this to yourself, mate! You are way too young to even consider matrimony. You said she'd wait for you, let her wait! What's a few years if it means true love?" Matthew rolled his eyes at this, an amused smirk rising to his lips. "All I'm asking is you live your life before you end it."

"It seems your concept of marriage is a death sentence, Dillon, which I think is ridiculous by the way. And for God's sake, lower your voice; you're making a scene. I'm not going to ask her tonight, or tomorrow, or this month for that matter. All I'm saying is that I'm going to marry her one day."

"So that's it, then? You're not even going to explore the field a little bit?"

"You mean join you in your escapades of heart break and philandering? I think not."

"You're just like Ethan, Matthew." Matthew stiffened at his former friend's mention. "You both take such pleasure in being so proper and moral. You're both self-righteous, if you ask me. I got the same speech from him just last night. I don't know why I put up with either of you and your delusional chivalry. Not to mention this silly feud you have going on. If you were anything of the gentlemen you make yourselves out to be, you would have resolved whatever stupid conflict of interest you two have over a glass of brandy, like you should have done from the beginning."

"I won't be cuaght dead within a mile of that _scum_!" Matthew spat, shaking with rage.

"Do you see what I mean? You're constantly at each others necks and I'm standing in between, trying to not offend either of you. At least _he," _Dillon was careful not to say Ethan's name this time, "doesn't insult you behind your back."

"He has no reason to," Matthew growled, his eyes smoldering.

"And you do?" Dillon's eyebrows rise.

"Very much so. And I would have insulted him to his face, if he were here right now."

"You're not going to explain that are you?" Dillon asked hopelessly.

"No," was his curt reply. Matthew's jaw was clenched, his hands balled into fists as he tried to control his anger.

Dillon narrowed his eyes at his friend's menacing demeanor. No one knew what exactly caused the sudden deterioration of Ethan and Matthew's friendship. It was almost incomprehensible as to what extreme circumstances could drive such close brothers into most hated enemies. Dillon had tried many times, every time unsuccessfully, to weasel it out of either one of them, but they would not reveal a word. All he knew that it happened several weeks into Matthew and Rochelle's courtship. So maybe it was jealousy? He would probably never know.

His thoughts were interrupted at the sight of the girls returning. Dillon smiled, his thoughts drifting to other things. He liked this Chloe. She was certainly pretty, and smart too. She could carry on a decent conversation, not gossipy or overly educated, just pleasant, mindless chatter that he enjoyed. Now, if only he could understand what she said.

Ignoring the fuming Matthew beside him, he smiled brightly at her and, taking one of her delicate hands, kissed her knuckles softly. She smiled back at him shyly, looking through her long eyelashes. Despite what Matthew thought, Dillon knew very well how to charm a lady, having taken extensive courses from his dear constantly intoxicated father. All he had to do was sit and observe and do the exact opposite of whatever degrading actions his father would make at the pub waitresses. His supposed parent would, more often than not, come home with red hand prints on one or both of his cheeks, completely wasted and almost frothing at the mouth with rage at 'such rude behaviour from fine young women'. It was something he tried very hard to protect his little sister from. _It_being their father. Sometimes, he couldn't blame their mother for running away with the stableman. If only she'd taken them with her.

"Shall we? The show is about to start and I haven't seen this one yet," Dillon said, returning his thoughts to the beautiful ladies before him. With one final smile in Rochelle's direction, he lead Chloe by her hand through the now dwindling crowd to the magnificent theatre, leaving the other couple behind.

Rochelle, sensing her suitor's anger, placed a calming hand on his arm. He seemed to relax under her touch, his jaw unclenching. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

Matthew looked down to his raven haired beauty and was met with brilliant green eyes. It always strikes him how gorgeous she truly is, and he took a moment from answering to reacquaint himself with her features. Large wide-set eyes, a delicate, angled nose, full pouty lips, and smooth golden skin whose only blemish was a small beauty mark on her long, elegant neck. She was slightly taller than average height, with slender limbs and exquisitely long legs.

"Nothing," he said finally, smiling, "Dillon was just being his irritating self."

She chuckled quietly and pulled him along through the huge double doors. "Come on, let's go find some good seats." He smiled, relaxing completely as they ascended the large staircase.

The structure was a beautiful work of architecture. Everything screamed of wealth and grandeur, if not extravagance. The tall marble columns, the stained windows, the arched walls, the red velvet drapes, the well-crafted statues, the massive crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling; everything was refined and modernised yet held a true sense of antiquity.

"So, what are we watching?" Rochelle asked as they checked their tickets at the booth.

"I'm not sure; Dillon booked this one."

"Well that narrows it down. Knowing our dear Mr. Sinclair, it's either a sappy romance, in which case, we'll be throwing up by the end of it, or a complete gore galore with at least one or more maidens in distress."

Matthew laughed at the truth of the statement as they made their way down the aisle to their seat. Dillon and Chloe were waiting for them in the fourth row down from the front, looking quite cozy for recent acquaintances. They took their seat and not soon after, the lights dimmed and the show began.

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so what did you think? plz review. it'll be much appreciated

review!!

till next time.


	3. Therapy

I'm sure some of u are confused but i promise everything will be cleared up soon.

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"Isabel, is it?"

I stare mutely at the white floor through the thick curtain of my dirty, sickly brown hair, unblinking, unmoving. My hair was thick and long and sticking together with grime and sweat. They'll have to cut it soon, for sure.

"Isabel?"

They brought me here two meals after every session, to this room, where a man is always waiting, always talking through the haze that is my brain. I never heard any of it. I used to wonder when they would realize it was pointless, but I stopped caring. I stopped doing a lot of things.

"Isabel!"

The name fell on deaf ears. I recognised it, registered that it was, in fact, my name, but it did not elicit a response. It hasn't done so for a while now.

"Ah. So it's going to be like that." There was a faint frustrated sigh and then silence exept for the scratching of pen on paper.

They all started out like this. It was pathetic really. These _psychiatrists,_ as they call themselves, they try to break me down, try to categorize me, to understand my behaviour, so they can _help_ me.They give up eventually, and pass me on to the next poor _doctor _who has to deal with my silence.

There is a shuffling of paper and I know he is reading my rather large file. I've been diagnosed with countless illnesses of the mind; schizophrenia, compulsive lying, duel personality, catatonia, I had a superiority complex one day, and an inferiority one the next, all of them failing to explain my unresponsiveness to the respective treatment. They're grasping at straws, trying to get lucky. They know it, and they know I know it too. I was still a 'freak'. I don't understand many of the terms they use here, but that one stuck.

"Isabel? Do you find something interesting with the floor?"

This man ... I would have liked his voice before. Before I stopped listening. It was a nice deep baritone, soothing almost. Something you could tune out as easily as it you could listen to.

I tuned it out; it was second nature to me. It seemed almost wrong to listen.

"Isabel, I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

To anyone else, the cold, hard metal seat would be uncomfortable, but I barely felt it. Yes, the shackles on the arm rests were digging into my sore wrists, but I didn't care. Yes, the flat surface of the seat was hurting my back, but I ignored it. I stayed stark still. I could have been made of stone if it were not for the chest movements of my breathing. I almost wish I was.

"It's okay if you do not wish to talk; how about writing? Or drawing? Would you like to draw something for me?"

I could see it already. This one would try hard, get nowhere, and give up within seven and four sessions. I told one of them that once, back when I was naive and stupid and believed when they said I could trust them.

They increased my dosage.

"Are you hungry, Isabel? Thirsty maybe?"

I vaguely remember numbers. I could count to seven, but not a digit more. I used to hold on to my memories, the memories of a life before this one. I held on as tightly as I could, and surely enough, they began to slowly, painfully, slip away, until they seemed more illusions than reality. The imaginary creations of a delusional mind.

"There's no need to be shy. We're all family here."

Family. The word is foreign to me. I knew it by definition. But the concept of such close bonds between people seemed impossible to me; I was barely even self aware.

The doctor seems to realize that I am stubbornly disinclined to talk, and wisely leaves me be. My gaze shifts from the floor to my lap. The plain white cloth is itchy and dirty, sticking to my skin.

Time passes.

The nurse, standing at attention by the door at all times, comes to lead me back to my cell. I stumble behind on wobbly legs, my eyes trained on the immaculate floor. I trip and fall on the steep steps down to the lower regions. The nurse grips my arm tighter and drags me along, uncaring. I am stored away in the pit hole of my cell, breathing in the toxic fumes of human waste, awaiting the next bout of pain.

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I'm so sorry this is so short. next chap will be up soon I hope.

review and it'll make me super happy!!


	4. Ethan

Newest chappy is here! Thank you to all reviewers. hope you enjoy!

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A fire burned in the small, well-crafted hearth, casting an eery glow over the large bedroom, the shadows flickering across the unmade bed. The room was quiet except for the crackling of burning wood and the occasional tinkling of ice on glass as the chamber's sole occupant sipped his scotch lightly, trying to soothe his tight wrought nerves.

The boy was young, only recently seventeen, though he was already considered a man. He sat, slouched slightly, on the small, plush couch by the fire place. It was not uncommon to find him in this same position, in the early hours of the morning when not even the servants were up yet, trying to warm his chilled soul. The days were getting warmer as August came to an end, but the nights were still somewhat chilly. In just a few hours, the fire would become intolerable. But he did not mind; it was the cold that bothered him.

Ethan Roberts sighed heavily, settling deeper into the soft cushions. He leaned his head back, closing his deep blue eyes, only to open them again when images flashed, unbidden, beneath his heavy lids.

It was the same dream. He dreamed the same dream every night, over and over again. One would think he would be used to it by now. That the years of repetition would desensitize him to the horror that he witnessed in these late night hours. But he still felt the same dizzying fear, the same prickling chill that rattled his spine with every recurring nightmare. After all, how could one possibly get used to witnessing his own sister's murder?

_Marduke, _he thought. It was an odd name, for sure. One to match its owner; sinister and foreboding. He dared not think it again, as if prevented by some unspoken taboo. Though he hated to admit it, the name alone sent stirrings of fear through his tired body. It was hard to believe that the hideous monster had a name. Such creatures were much better referred to as _it_. Vague and undefined; the less you know the better.

Ethan sighed again and got up, using his free hand to rub the remaining sleep from his eyes. He placed the glass, still half full, back on the small table by the pitcher. He stretched out, his cramped back emitting a loud crack.

He walked out into the small hallway, not bothering to turn on the lights. It would not matter; the house would remain as morbid as the shadowy corners of the neighborhood haunt even if the sun decided to take up residence in one of it's unused rooms.

Ethan felt along the wall until he came to the door just across from his; the bathroom. He entered, locking the door behind him, though the action was pointless; it would be hours still before anyone would even consider waking and he would be long finished by then.

He turned the faucet on the large bathtub, adjusting the temperature to just the way he liked it; scorching hot. The sound of cascading water filled the overly large washroom, breaking the deafening silence.

Ethan stripped of his night clothes, relieved at the removal of the sticky, sweaty material. Reaching out blindly, he grabbed a soap bar from one of the many his mother kept on the wide marble counter, not caring for what particular scent he would smell of today. He walked back to the large tub and turned the water off, his eyes beginning to adjust to the dark.

He climbed into the steaming water, wincing slightly as it burned his skin. But it served it's purpose; as soon as the initial sting wore off, his muscles began to unwind, his body relaxing. It woke him up some, but in the dark of the misty room, it was easy to pretend he was still asleep. Lord knows he was more relaxed now than his dreams would ever allow him to be. It was times like these that he truly appreciated being able to afford keeping the heaters on all night.

He scrubbed himself down thoroughly, the citrus-y sweet scent of lemons replacing his manly stench. At least it wasn't anything _too _feminine, like vanilla or roses. Ethan had had his manhood questioned for smelling like a dandy all too many times.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back and evened out his breathing. He stayed that way for a long time, simply existing. It was in this time that he got more rest than he did in his sleep.

Ethan quited the bath when the water began to cool and his skin pruned. He dried himself with a towel before donning the fresh clothes he always had ready in a cabinet. Some plain brown leggings and a white puffy shirt.

He walked quietly back to his room, his light footsteps making no noise at all on the Persian silk carpets.

The sun had begun to creep through the thin white drapes, giving a dull gray light to the room, no longer illuminated by the dying fire. The chill had resettled itself in the absence of warmth, prickling at Ethan's heated skin.

The room was neat - other than the tumbled sheets of the bed - and clean; everything recently dusted and polished and put away in its proper place - something Ethan's skill helped quiet a lot with. His orderly ways was something he picked up from his otherworldly mentor. And after practically living with the tidy ancient for twelve years, Ethan found the chaotic mess of his teenage peers somewhat disorienting, especially with his profound connection to inanimate objects.

He found his boots tucked away in the corner where he last put them. He laced them on and made his bed. Usually, it was a task reserved for the maids, but his room was the only one they were forbidden to enter - except for the monthly cleaning his mother insisted on - and he could not stand the sight long enough for them to wake up and get around to it. It gave him something to do while the dawn arrived in all its golden glory.

This was the usual ritual, the same boring cycle he went through every single day. His father would be up by now, and off to work within the hour - probably not to return home until late. Ethan would check in on his mother before leaving the house. On a good day, she would still be fast asleep, though restless - can no one get enough sleep in this house? - and he could leave her to her dreams, knowing someone would be there to care for her when she does wake up. And on the bad days she would be up, too disturbed to sleep, tears streaking down her pale, chalky cheeks - his father already gone to work earlier than usual. Ethan would make her tea and sit with her until she is strong enough to move about.

Today was a good day. It seemed to brighten his mood, but only fractionally. He knew better than to harbour false hopes.

Ethan closed the door to her bedroom quietly behind him, making his way through the parlour to the kitchen. It was a rather big surprise when he found his father still there, sipping his coffee absently. Even more surprising was the fact that he was still in his night clothes, a robe tied loosely around him.

There was a moment of shocked silence, where Shaun continued to sip idly, staring unseeingly at the table in front of him.

"Good morning," Ethan said finally, dragging his jaw off the floor enough to remember his manners.

Shaun looked up from the table, nodding minutely at his son before returning to his musings. There was no greeting, no recognition. Nothing.

Anger rose in Ethan at his father's stoic indifference, rearing it's massive head and lashing out. "Why aren't you at work?" He spat.

"Your mother requested I escort her to some art gala she wished to see," Shaun replied coolly, his posture relaxed; the epitome of calm. Evidently, Ethan's anger was wasted on him. "And since it is Saturday, I decided to oblige."

_Of course_, Ethan thought. It was not uncommon for Shaun Roberts to be at work on Saturday, even though he was the owner of the small, yet incredibly lucrative, leather company that was his employment. And though his position secured less work and more pay, Shaun worked twice as hard as his own employees, taking on order after order - anything to keep himself busy and away from the house, from his family.

In fact, if Ethan remembers correctly, this was the first Saturday he has taken off in months, the last one being on the Easter ball they'd been invited to. Never has he taken time off for his family. Work came first to him. And now they have more money than they know how to spend.

"You're going to have to take the car today. We need the horses." Shaun continues, his tone impassive.

"All of them?" Ethan asked incredulously. He preferred carriages, or even horse back, to cars. They were obnoxiously loud and hard to maneuver, not to mention they started vibrating uncontrollably if they idle for even a minute.

To his knowledge, they had five good, strong, well-bred horses - including his very own mare, Julia, which he adored - all very well taken care of in their own private stables, located on this very estate. It took two horses at most to drive a carriage. Unless, of course, they decided to arrive separately - Ethan wouldn't put it past them - and even then there would be one spare.

"It's their six month check up. Caleb will be arriving around noon, and I doubt you will be back by then."

_Ahh_.

"Did she sleep well?" They both knew who he was talking about.

"It doesn't matter, does it? There doesn't need to be a reason to set her off nowadays."

Ethan's anger rose once more at his father's nonchalant tone. How could he watch his own wife, whom he claims to love, suffer so miserably and not care?

_He doesn't love her_, Ethan thought bitterly, _He feels nothing at all. Bloody zombie is what he is._

Ethan stalked out of the room without another word, grabbing an apple before exiting through the kitchen door into the garden.

He ignored the car parked in the large drive, preferring to walk, and took a bite out of his apple.

He knew how unstable his mother's condition was. She could seem fine one day, acting as a mother should, worrying and fussing over Ethan's creased shirt, and the next she would be cold and distant, her beautiful hazel gray eyes dull and withdrawn, barely noticing Ethan at all. There were times when she would happily complement her friends about how wonderful their daughters are, and others where the slightest thing could set her off into streams of tears.

Ethan had long ago given up hope that she would ever heal, that his father would ever come home in time to have dinner with them. They would never be the family they used to be twelve years ago, the family they were supposed to be. Like they were before _she _died.

Beautiful little Sera. Ten years old and already the little beauty, and will forever remain thus.

Despite the effect his sister's death had had on him, despite the pain and loss Ethan's heart would forever harbour for his deceased sister, he could not help the feeling of resentment and envy that rose in him.

His parents had deteriorated rapidly after Sera's rare disease took her life, and it was like they had no son. Too wrapped up in their own grief, they barely noticed their distressed four year old. He couldn't understand his parents rejection, why they neglected him so, sending him to therapist after therapist after he told them about his dreams. They didn't want to listen to him and his fables. _Seeking attention_, they said. He learned to hold his tongue after that.

It was as if they had all died with her. She was their favorite; their pride and joy. He would never be enough for them, never be worth moving on to because he wasn't _her_. And he hated her for it. Wasn't it enough that she haunted his dreams?

Sometimes, he couldn't help but think that they wished _he_had died instead. He'd made the mistake of thinking it around Arkarian once - and earned a hard smack on the back of his small head.

_If I _ever_catch you thinking like that again, I don't care if you're seven feet tall, I will beat the thought right out of your head, _He'd said, his violet eyes hard and angry, betraying no hint of deception - there was no doubt he would do it. He was five years old at the time.

It was later on, when he was older and understood the concept of life and death better that the guilt came. How could he blame her, his beloved sister, for the things that were happening to him? It was certainly not her fault she died, and killed them all with her. She'd had her life, her future, all of it taken away, and he had the audacity to resent her for it?

But he did not wallow in self pity - or self hatred. No - he would not become his father. He gave himself a cause - the cause of the Guard - and threw his life and soul into it. And his days have been brighter ever since. The Guard - a secret organisation hell bent on protecting the past from any and all enemies, namely the Order of Chaos - was his sanctuary. More of a home to him than his own house has been in years.

It was ironic in a way. The future looked bleak to him, and the present was downright morbid - the past was all he had; all he will ever have. Protecting it was the only thing keeping him sane.

It was thus that he made his way through the near empty streets, through the low buzz of the market where shops were just beginning to open, out into an open trail, deeper into the woods and up the mountain. It was path he had walked almost everyday for the last twelve years, leading him deep into the thick underbrush before opening out to a small clearing as the mountain became too steep for growth.

The mountain face disappeared, creating an opening in the shape of a door. A hallway is revealed, lit by evenly spaced candles placed in such a way to give an air of mystery. There are secrets hidden behind these walls; you can _feel_ it. They invite you in; they _want_ to be discovered.

But you resist. You _must_. You can easily get lost in searching. There are too many; too many hallways, too many doors that must forever remain closed. Here, in these cavernous chambers, curiosity _will_ kill you.

Ethan walks through the opening, the candle flames flickering with the light breeze comming through the doorway. He seems perfectly at ease in the small space; the echoing of his footsteps does not bother him. He takes a straight path through the maountain, ignoring the passing doors and branching hallways. He remembers his trainers warning the first time he was brought here.

_Do not stray, Ethan, for as long as you stay on the path I have shown you, you will be perfectly safe. The second your toe breaches a threshold you were not meant to cross, your life is forfeit._

Ethan heeded his master's words, deciding it was not worth the risk. He stayed on the path he was shown and using only the few rooms he was allowed to train in. Though he still felt the burning _need _to know what lies beyond, he was accustomed to ignoring it.

"In here, Ethan," Arkarian's voice rings out from a room to Ethan's left.

The room is large and perfectly circular. The walls are lined with paintings, the multitude of swirling colors somewhat dizzying. They are everywhere; hanging from the walls, leaning against it, laying flat against the ground. The pictures vary from landscape to abstract and even a portrait of Ethan's six year old self. There are faces he does not recognise, done in such detail and skill that he half expects one of them walk right out and start a conversation with them.

His eyes skim across the room, taking in the various art works before finally resting on Arkarian. He was standing on a thin plastic sheet - probably set there to protect the floor - his electric blue hair tied neatly at the base of his head, enhancing the color of his vivid violet eyes, a small smile on his youthful lips. Two of his ancient stools sat next to him and in front of that was an easel supporting an empty canvas. One of the stools held a paint pad and bucket with various brushes of different sizes, filled half way with water.

Ethan raised an eyebrow questioningly at the scene before him. But his thoughts were answered before he could voice them.

"I thought I'd teach you to draw," came the simple reply.

Ethan walked forward, the plastic crackling beneath his feet, his expression incredulous. "How is that supposed to help me during a mission?"

"You would be surprised."

Ethan scoffed. "You realize I don't even have to lift a finger? I don't need to know how to draw Arkarian, I know everything I need to know to survive. I thought you had a mission for me or something along those lines."

Arkarian's expression turns serious. "What you know is a grain of sand in a mighty see, Ethan. There is always something to learn. How do you expect to earn your wings if you think otherwise?" His voice rings with knowledge, "When you can control the brush with your hand as you can with your mind, only then can you say you have mastered it."

"But that's impossible!" Ethan protests.

Arkarian's eyes glint with humour, the edges of his lips turning up in a knowing smirk. "Exactly."

"Now, think of what you want to draw," Arkarian continues, ignoring Ethan's huff of indignation, "I don't care what it is; it can be a garden scene or a portrait of your toes, it's all the same. I want you to hold the image in your head, and then let your hand recreate it. I want to feel what you feel when I look at it. I expect perfection and I will accept nothing less. You may begin."

Ethan grudgingly sits down, realizing it would be pointless to argue. "And I used to wonder why you don't have a wife," he mumbles, agitated.

Arkarian's face remains a stoic mask of seriousness, seeing no humour in the jumbled words. Ethan sighs heavily and strives to think of what to draw.

_What is worth preserving?_ He questioned.

* * *

review!!


	5. Unleashed

Okay so this is a really short, completely unsatisfactory chapter. I was thinking of expanding it, but it would be too long, and school is starting soon and i have a lot of things to prepare, so I decided to get this posted and then the next chapter would be the continuation.

so sorry again.

* * *

I sat, restrained, on the cold, hard chair, breathing heavily while my heart pounded a disjointed rhythm in my chest. My body trembled violently as I tried to repress the instinct to heal. It crawled through my tattered frame, singing of relief, of escape. Alluring in a way; addictive.

But I beat it down. Just like every time.

_I will_ not _give in!_

I gasped in a shuddering breath as the pain hit me full force. I thrashed against the seat, bruising myself further. It was too much.

Too much.

My feeble grip on reality slipped, my will crumbling against the constant onslaught of pain. The healing power, no longer under my restraint, flooded my brain, curing it of the maddening throbbing.

_No!_

It spread downwards to my face, healing my bruised cheek, my busted lip. The warmth seeped into my neck, probing into every blood vessel, every cramped muscle, repairing whatever needs it.

_No, no, no, no._

It spread through my burning lungs, easing their movements until air glided in and out of them effortlessly.

_No!_

It continued it's descent downwards, healing everything in it's wake - from the tiniest scratch, already a week old, to my deformed, dislocated fingers.

_NO!!_

I ground my teeth against the black rubber separating my jaws, trying to regain control over the healing.

_This should_ not _happen!_

But, oh, it felt _so good_.

_NO! Stop!_

The warmth spread out through my entire body, almost like a separate entity; invading. I tried to push it out, but it would not respond to me. I had completely lost control.

The _thing _was so inviting. So _lovely. _It whispers sweet assurances.

_Let me in. Let me in, my little one. Let me in and you will never feel pain again. Let me in._

And so I let go; my mind was too tired to fight, my body too abused to resist.

I didn't want to resist.

_There, there, my sweet one. Rest._

The feeling continued it's journey down my spine, unwinding my knotted back muscles, smoothing them out and relaxing them. The ache in my shrunken stomach disappeared; the damage done from the juices repaired. The dull throb in my arms gone.

It was a queer feeling; to be healed. Something I had only felt once before - something I should never have felt again. It was not like the natural healing a body does - it takes very little time and erases all traces of a wound. Not healed - but like there was never an injury in the first place.

Unnatural.

But I knew I did not believe that.

How could I when it felt so _right_?

My body sagged, my eyes drooped. I felt weighted down; but in the most glorious of ways. Not restrained - but floating. Detached.

I could not feel my body, nor command it. And I did not want to.

I was content where I was; locked in my own mind. And even then, I did not think.

I was so tired of the pain. So glad of relief.

My sensed dulled, my mind fogged. I could feel the darkness of unconsciousness creeping, approaching slowly, hesitantly, as if shy.

I faintly heard the light buzz of the generator stop; signaling the end of the session. And then footsteps echoing. My eyes flickered under my heavy lids.

_Shh, shh, lovely one. Rest now. You'll need it._

And, as if emboldened by those words, unconsciousness surged forward, encompassing me in a cloud of darkness; a cloud I eagerly accepted. I heard the faintest of surprised gasps before I was completely gone.

_...You'll need it._

* * *

In case any one is confused, this is in Isabel's POV. I didn't want to mention it above cause it would ruin the whole feeling of it (I know that sounds completely wakko but trust me on this one).

i hope u like it though it was a little too little if you ask me (lol)

next chapter will hopefully be up soon.

Review and tell me what u think.


	6. Golden Entity

I'm so incredibly sorry.

I know once you read this chapter you're going to think I'm intentionally cruel. Know that this is not the case. School is starting tomorow and my mom is going to confescate my computer until this weekend, so I decided you're better off with a little bit rather than nothing. Which is why I posted this excuse of a chapter.

Please forgive.

* * *

I awoke slowly, awareness coming back in stages. The black haze shifted slightly, returning a few of my senses. The first thing I noticed was a strange feeling in my shoulders. They didn't hurt exactly, just uncomfortable, as if being held at an odd angle. I tried to shift them, but they would not move; the haze still lingered. Better to just ignore it.

I waited patiently for the pain to come, signaling my full revival.

And I waited.

And waited.

It never came.

This confused me a little; there had always been pain; a bruise or a cut or even the sting of hunger.

But nothing hurt. At all. I had to admit - it was a very pleasant feeling. I was so completely relaxed.

I was probably still unconscious. Yes, that makes more sense - though pain _has_ been known to follow me there most times.

Then I noticed something different in my body. There was something else there. I could feel it. I could see it clearly beneath my closed lids, spreading and twirling its golden tendrils, bringing warmth wherever it touched. It swirled around mindlessly, dancing along my fingers, surging through my abdomen, tingling down my legs to my very toes, retreating to explore, only to surge yet again in wave after wave of pure, unadulterated _power_. It glowed, brimming with reserved energy, itching to release it. It flew through my body from one extremity to the next, unaffected by bone, blood, or tissue; as if not knowing where it wanted to be. No - as if it wanted to be _everywhere. _It pranced through my torso, spinning wildly to the beat of my heart - unusually strong and even.

It exulted happily, giggling madly as it spun around itself in smoky patterns. I watched it skip around, mesmerised by this golden being. I wondered idly what it was. But it did not matter; it was just so beautiful. I noted, with surprise, how wonderful it felt to have it there. It made me ... content; complete. It _belonged_ there. It had just as much claim over by body as I did - maybe even more so.

Where had it come from?

_Did I really care?_

No, no I don't.

I could faintly hear the sound of my own breathing, growing louder with each passing minute. Then another sound. Breathing again. But not mine. There was someone else in the room.

I didn't get the chance to analyse this when I was harshly brought back to conscousness. Freezing cold liquid, water presumably, was thrown at me, stinging my skin as if it were burned. I gasped in a shuddering breath, my eyes flying open with shock. My body stiffened, my senses on wide alert, my hair bristling against the chilling air. The water trickled through my hair, oozing down my face and back, leaving a trail of burning ice behind it. I shuddered with cold while my teeth began to clatter.

Almost immediately, as if distressed, the golden being began to move, as if having a mind of it's own. It swelled out, lining along my skin, and not a few seconds later the stinging stopped, my skin suddenly warm again, unaffected by the prickling cold water. My body sagged, my eyes closing again before I had the chance to see anything.

And then I knew.

_No, no, no, no._

I knew what the golden being was.

_This is bad._

I tried to shoo it back, back behind the cage of my mind. It should not be left to roam.

It responded immediately to me, bowing willingly - although unhappily - to my command, though it was obviously infinitely stronger. It retreated slowly, first from my toes, then my legs, going back up to my mind where it should never have left. I felt the prickling cold return as the golden threads detached slowly from my skin.

The air blowing against my freezing wet skin stung in the most unpleasant ways. Like pins pricking you all over.

I've had worse. Oh yes, this is nothing compared to the excruciating pain of my sessions. But now that I've felt what it's like to _not _hurt, this seemed a cruel torture. I couldn't handle it. The numb was not enough anymore.

The floodgates of my mind opened, releasing the healing power. It glowed a brighter gold now that I had unleashed it willingly. And I knew there was no containing it again. I could not restrain it any longer. The damage was done; there was no going back.

I should have seen this coming. It was so painfully obvious. Ever since that first outbreak, oh so many years ago, I had held it back, chained it on a tight leash at the back of my mind. It had grown stronger, while I grew steadily weaker. Years of abuse and near starvation - if you can call what they feed me food - had finally caught up to me. It grew harder and harder to suppress this healing entity, knowing full well it would bring me more pain than good - though it hurt quite a bit to do so. I should have known this would happen eventually.

How long can one suppress their own nature?

_Not long enough._

* * *

again, I'm sorry this is so short. Next chapter will (hopefully) be up soon :)

Review (if you want to, of course- if you never want to talk to me again, I'll understand)

* * *


	7. Remembering

Ethan quirked his head at the odd object the canvas portrayed. It was his fifth attempt at art and there always seemed to be something wrong with the painting in front of him. Three days he tried and failed at coming up with something remotely acceptable. Three days of fruitless effort and he was getting impatient. Matters at home did not help what with his mother going through a rough faze and his father retreating to his study altogether, and he was quickly falling into a state of depression, especially since there was no Guard work to distract him and no school for another month yet.

He had begun with something he hoped would impress his mentor enough to desist with the art lessons - he craved action. He should have known it would not have worked; who knew a tree was so complex? Ethan had even conjured up an illusion of one to guide him, but to no avail. Arkarian, sensing his pupil's frustration, had suggested he try something simple, so Ethan got as simple as he could get: he tried to portray a chair. But even that seemed to elude him.

He took another look at the picture in front of him, his brow furrowing with frustration. It was not a chair. One leg was crooked and it seemed flat; undefined. It was not a chair; it was a picture. Dull and lifeless.

Arkarian looked over Ethan's shoulder at yet another failed attempt and sighed; they were getting nowhere. Arkarian was worried for his apprentice; he felt his frustration as if it were his own, though he did not show it. Arkarian knew what it did to Ethan to idle. If he was not busy with something, Ethan tended to brood on matters best left for the past and when he brooded he got frustrated and upset, which is why Arkarian had come up with this exercise. But Ethan was not concentrating and it was beginning to grate on his nerves.

Now was not the time for that, especially with the Tribunal so uptight. There were rumors spreading; rumors of exposure. The Guard was at risk of being uncovered. From what Arkarian knew, the source was not entirely known. The origin of the roomers came from a remote facility in a deserted region some miles north of Angel Falls but not much else has been found. They knew the facility was supposedly a medical centre for the mentally disabled though it has a reputation for malpractice. Not many are aware of the hospital's existence and even fewer know it's exact location, much to the satisfaction of its staff who are free to do as they please.

The rumors themselves are unclear. Some say one of the patients there is a witch practicing black magic, others say the patient is possessed by the devil; so on and so forth. There was nothing conclusive. The Tribunal have come up with many possibilities; one is that the patient is gifted and has just come into their skills without the knowledge of the guard, but the most accepted of them is that the rumors are simply that; rumors. It not a chance the Guard is willing to take, so until the problem is solved and a proper investigation is conducted, all members have been put on high alert. Except Ethan who has yet to be informed, though the subject will be discussed later during their current meeting.

But that was not all that was playing on Arkarian's patience. There is a tugging at the back of his mind that will not desist. It pulls at him day and night and he constantly feels as if he is missing something. Arkarian does not know what it is or what it means, but it was wearing on him. He has grown into the habit of double and triple checking every single detail of his life from washing his face to watching the sphere he uses to monitor the past, but the tugging is always there. A constant nuisance he cannot seem to ignore. It was making him more than a bit apprehensive. He was beginning to wonder if he should report it, or at least mention it to Lorian and the Tribunal.

_Two days_, Arkarian thought_, If it does not ebb by two day's time, I will report it_. Though he doubted he could bring himself to do it anyway. It felt private to him; his own suffering that no one should know about. The notion was entirely ridiculous, of course, and Arkarian realized his silence could be putting himself and others around him in danger but he could not shrug the feeling off. If only he knew what was causing the insensible pull that plagued his mind, maybe then it would cease to bother him.

Arkarian sighed, halting his thoughts, and returned to the task at hand. He looked at the pitiful painting of a chair in front of him and recognised Ethan's mistake immediately. It was a common one, a mistake many of his student's had made before, but a major one nonetheless. "You are underestimating the value of a chair, Ethan," Arkarian stated, ignoring Ethan's quizzical look, "It is simple, yes; it is common, yes; but is more important than you give it credit for. It is not simply a piece of carved wood; it is much more than that. It provides you with rest, it is an artifact you can cherish, a work of art that carpenters conjure with their saws and their sweat and so much more. In order to portray it accurately, you must first capture its very essence. What is a chair to you Ethan? Think on that and then show me."

Ethan stared up at his mentor from his seated position, once again taken aback by his seemingly endless wisdom. It had always baffled him how Arkarian could take any object, no matter how worthless it may seem, and turn it into something lovely; something magical and special and worthy to be cherished. Arkarian had done the same with Ethan, so many years ago when he found him on that hill and pulled him out of his madness and grief and gave him a new meaning to life. Arkarian showed him how to mourn his sister without killing himself in the process, something Ethan had always wished he could teach his parents though it was probably too late now.

Ethan turned back to the easel in fron of him, taking up a new canvas, he began to paint, a new dedication shining in his eyes. He would not let Arkarian down.

* * *

-Isabel-

I was having dreams. Strange, incomprehensible dreams. Between the beatings and the endless questions, in the few moments of rest they allowed me, I dreamt. Not of the repetitive "how did you heal yourself?" or "What is the source of your witchcraft?" or any of the other nonsensical word they threw at me, not of the man who came in everyday to cause me pain, pain that is quickly removed by the golden being that now resides inside me and is somehow determined to do my bidding; no, I dreamt of stranger things ... different things.

One of my dreams is of a man. A man I am sure I have never seen before. I dreamt of him time and time again. It has come to a point were, if I close my eyes - which I do most of the time- I will see his clear pale face and deep eyes, shining with an expression I could not understand. He was colorful though. His hair was long and blue and his eyes a deep purple. I had allowed myself a moment of pride for remembering the names of those colors before I quickly shoved it away. Remembering was bad. Remembering only brought me pain.

There were other dreams though. Dreams of a little boy with brown hair and brown eyes. He looked very familiar, like I should know him. There was a strange tugging at my heart whenever I thought of him, almost painful, so I stopped thinking. But the dreams continued.

They were so incredibly clear; every detail shining out, taunting me. In my starved and delirious state, it took me longer than it should have to realise that they were not dreams. They were visions. The cursed sights that had put me here in the first place.

One was exceptionally disturbing. It was of the boy, the familiar one. He was seated at a large wooden _thing_with his little hands he pressed on small white and black blocks that were attached to the wood. He moved his little fingers, pressing different blocks and a tune came out. Loud ringing noises mixed with deeper stronger ones. He moved his fingers again, and again a noise came out. His fingers moved faster and faster across the blocks, creating a soft happy melody that played over and over in my head. I felt something pull within me when he played. A place in my mind, locked off and forgotten was brought back to the surface, getting closer, louder until it exploded through my mind with a sense of realisation. _Music. _The boy was making music. And it was beyond anything I had ever heard before.

The tune had highs and lows, with tinkling, playful notes and slower, deeper, stubborn ones. It went between one and the other, playing both together and separately. It would get higher and higher only to come back down and then start again. The sound moved me, repeating in my mind until it conquered all thoughts. And in the passion of music, something single tear spilt over my cheek, followed by another and another.

The music slowed, stopped, the vision faded and the boys face blurred and in the distance I heard an echo, _Matty, _Someone called, _It's dinner time _and I was left in the blackness of my cell; alone, hungry and mourning the beauty I could never have with tears that were long overdue.


	8. Dillon

Dillon walked briskly through the darkening streets, ignoring the flickering shadows the sparse streetlamps created. He was used to dark and cold places, having been the with Order of Chaos for almost eight years. His sister, however, was not, so he pulled her closer to his chest and picked up his pace.

He was trying - and failing - to fight the anger and shame that roared through his veins. He felt like scum, sneaking around in the middle of the night, living off his friends' charity because his own father could not keep himself sober enough not to hurt his own children. He could swallow his pride though, if it meant keeping Liana safe. The little girl moved in his arms and he held her tighter against the evening chill.

His anger rose once again. It was not fair to her, a mere six year old child, to have to watch her own father rant in his drunken rages about his own failures. Dillon knew she blamed a lot of it on herself. He could not bare the thought of his bright, inquisitive sister hinder her brilliant potential with needless guilt, though he knew he had no power to change. Even with all his physical strength, with all the time and energy his mistress had put into training him, still he could not change the nature of his circumstances.

_I will make this right, _he swore, _if I have to kill that bastard myself. _It would be easy for him; he had killed many before. It was a prerequisite as a member of the Order. His face wrinkled in disgust. He may have taken many lives, but that did not necessarily mean he particularly enjoyed it.

Dillon crossed the street quickly, crossing the small lawn of the house he had been looking for in a few quick strides. He shifted the half asleep Liana into one arm and knocked on the door.

It took a few minutes but Matthew Becket eventually opened the door. The sight before him was no surprise, which was quite unfortunate. Even with bleary, sleep filled eyes, he could see the rage clearly in Dillon's eyes. It jolted him awake.

"Again?" Matthew asked angrily. The second time in half as many weeks he'd had to see his friend shunned from his own home by his drunken father. It brought back unpleasent memories; ones Matthew didn't particularly care to remember. Needless to say, he could relate to Dillon's predicament.

"Why else would I be standing at your door in the middle of the night?" Dillon growled out. He regreted his harsh tone almost immediately; Matthew was only trying to help. "Take her," Dillon said, somewhat more subdued, holding out his sleeping sister,"I have to go stop him before he hurts himself or worse; someone else."

Matthew nodded, taking the sleeping child from Dillon's arms. "Don't do anything you'll regret," Matthew warned.

Dillon snickered; the man knew him too well. He looked gratefully back at his friend. "Thank you," he said sincerely. It wasn't very often that Dillon was shown kindness.

Matthew nodded tightly, clearly worried over Dillon's emotional stability. It took very little to stir up Dillon's rage, especially if it concerned his sister. Matthew understood perfectly well what Dillon was going through. He had had a little sister once; he knew the uncontrollable _need _to defend her that was probably raging through Dillon's veins. And there was not a day that goes by that Matthew did not regret not being strong enough to do so. They had snatched her away in the middle of the night and he'd never seen her since.

Matthew closed the door quietly at Dillon's retreating form, struggling to do so with little Liana dozing in his arms. He laid her down softly in the small bed in the spare bedroom and tucked her in. His mother would take care of her when she wakes. Hopefully, Dillon will take care of himself.

Matthew sighed and went back to bed. There was nothing he could do to help his friend and he knew it. This was something Dillon himself had to take care of. Matthew only hoped that Dillon could get a hold of his rage before he did something he might regret.

**I know it's short. I'm sorry but life has gotten in the way. Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long to get out. **

**Reviews are appreciated. Thank you all for your patience.  
**


	9. Dillon continued

Dillon was mad. No- he was beyond furious. He was enraged. He would kill the lowlife that dared call himself his father for driving them out of their home for the millionth time.

He walked back through the empty streets unthinking. He knew the way instinctively. He clenched his fist against the red haze of anger that was brewing inside him, growing larger and larger; towering over his consciousness; threatening to drown him in pure unadulterated hate.

_Control, _he thought. It was all about control. He could not afford to lose what little he had. He had fought tooth and nail for little inches of control; of power. He would not let that pathetic excuse for a human being take away what little he had acquired of it.

By the time he reached the door of the worn down house that was his lodging, he had loosened up enough to think straight. He remembered Matthew's words and though he doubted he would regret killing his father, it would most probably raise unwanted attention to him.

_So the coward lives, _Dillon thought maliciously, _for now._

He walked through the dusty corridor, the annoying squeaking of the rotten floor boards irritating him further, to the living room where he would most probably find the drunk fool drooling all over himself in his alcohol induced slumber.

Dillon was right.

There lay the source of all his strife, stretched out on the shabby sofa of the simple room, saliva dripping out of his open mouth. Small, intermittent snores erupted from his throat.

Dillon sneered, disgusted. Even in the dark he could see the toll of years of substance abuse on the man's face. His face was wrinkled and thin, his skin deathly pale and spotted with signs of liver failure.

Dillon remembered, long ago, he used to look up to this man. He used to find him strong and capable; someone he would be proud to call a father. That was when his mother was still with them.

Dillon had watched, with naive, innocent eyes, as his father slowly grew more and more distant, more and more addicted to his booze, and his mother became more and more desperate for affection. He'd watched helplessly as his life came crashing down around his ears.

It was Dillon who had first found out of his mother's adultery. He did not understand then. But how could he? He was a mere child of eight. It made no sense to him why his mother was screaming out the stable hand's name from her bedroom. He'd thought she was getting hurt. He'd called his father.

What a mistake that had been. The fights started. Then the accusations. Then the threats. His mother left the week after, never once looking back. Not even saying goodbye to the children she never seemed to want. His sister was devastated.

That was eight years ago. Dillon was helpless then. Helpless to stop the destruction. He was not helpless now.

He _caused _destruction now. He loved it.

He was grateful sometimes; grateful that he had met Lathenia when he ran out, crying for his lost family. His mistress had brought him a great many comforts; taught him to take what he wanted. Taught him to control the world around him.

Dillon looked back to the sleeping lump. It would be all too easy to kill him. To end the constant fear his sister had to live in. Dillon could protect himself; it was Liana who had to suffer.

Dillon wouldn't even need a weapon. He could wrap his large, powerful hands around his neck and _squeeze._ Not to choke. Just snap his neck in two.

It was tempting.

Dillon resisted. It was not worth his time. He thought of the one place where he could take out all of his frustration without reserve.

Dillon took one look around the small house, righting the bed that the drunkard had upturned and sweeping away the glass from a broken mirror, making sure nothing else was damaged before using his wings and transporting himself to the dark cavernous lair that was his training room.

He walked briskly through the dim grey corridors till he found the main chamber. It was large and round and in the center was the sphere Lathenia used to tamper with the past, lieng innocently on a plane wooden table.

Dillon waited a few moments before his mistress appeared. She always seemed to sense when her subjects approached from the icy palace that was her home.

Dillon bowed low. "Mistress," he greeted.

"Bastian," Her high, commanding voice rang out, infused with authority and power, almost like it was made to intimidate, "I have a mission for you." Lathenia wasted no time in greeting, getting straight to the point.

Dillon's lips curled upward in a smirk; he was ready for action. "I am at your command my Lady."

Lathenia smiled at this. Bastian was one of her most grateful subjects; always willing to please. He was consequently one of her favourites; she felt she could trust him on this mission.

"May I ask what time I will be traveling to you Highness?" Dillon - Bastian in this realm - asked.

Lathenia smiled sadistically at this. "You're not travelling anywhere. My mission for you is in this time line. There is an important person I would like you to collect."

At this, Dillon's smile faded and the stirrings of apprehension gripped his heart. He did not like it. But again, his powerless to stop it; he could not deny the Goddess of Chaos.

Matthew's words came back to him.

_Don't do something you might regret._

Right now, Dillon had no choice.

**I know you guys are mad at me - twenty some hits and only one review. So this is an apology for taking so long. **

**Enjoy. The next chapter will hopefully be up soon too.  
**


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